Till Voices Wake Us
by Windswift
Summary: Germany knows how words turn into weapons, but Italy is supposed to be bad at war. But Italy's never been good at following rules, either.


_Notes:_ The setting of this fic is brought to you by a combination of Wikipedia, Google maps, some other internet research, and Cornelia Funke's book _The Thief Lord_. Just suspend your disbelief that I've decently represented Venice here. The title is taken from the last line of T.S. Eliot's poem _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_: "Till human voices wake us, and we drown." Also, thanks to **katia-chan** for consulting and polishing and refining all through the process.

_**Till Voices Wake Us**_

Germany knows the weight of words, heavier than bullets; no gun can kill a nation, but the stories that a people tell themselves, the labels they ink on their maps to carve a picture of _us_ from the melange of _them_, frame the loom on which their history numbers its days. It's a lesson his boss demonstrates every day, how a phrase leaves a wake like a bombshell. Italy, standing on his other side, whines like the cacophony of a whole armory: loud and annoying and ultimately ineffectual, easy to brush aside a few minutes later.

So Italy suggests and pleads and shirks for a month, and they only go to Venice after Germany deconstructs and recasts the background drone into the only vocabulary he knows these days.

He explains to himself that a football match boosts Italy's morale, that an afternoon outing promotes the well-being of their partnership. Italy is like a puppy, like one of Germany's beloved dogs-always seeking affection and requiring attention. Germany does well and good to train him and refrain from spoiling him, to be stern and harsh for his own good, but on occasion Italy must be taken out to play.

So Germany doesn't sit at a cafe table, out of the way of the crowds, and think about his desk at home and his training regimens. He doesn't tell Italy to stop cooing at the pigeons and following them as they waddle around the square, or that the birds are unsanitary. He lets Italy wind his arm around Germany's elbow like ivy around a tree-so as not to lose Germany in the crush of Venetians and, even more dangerous, the hoards of tourists. And although the observation sticks in his throat and he has to clear it several times before the words come out intelligibly, he says that Venice is a beautiful city.

Italy's beaming face leaves him dizzier than the glare of sunlight reflecting off the waters of the canals.

Germany tips his head up to look at the clock tower in the Piazza San Marco, with its deep blue face like a round window of night sky suspended above the square, sprinkled with stars and ringed by the zodiac. The golden sun has crept up to the fifteenth hour, but hugging his right arm Italy betrays no signs of faltering. Instead he untwines himself from Germany to go digging in his pockets, his shoulders hunched and butted against Germany's side as his mouth screws up in concentration. Italy's warning about pickpockets this morning replays in Germany's mind, and just as he's formulating a plan to comfort him in the fit of crying he envisions ensuing over whatever he's lost, Italy's two fists emerge triumphant and shoot ramrod-straight against Germany's chest.

"Here," he prompts, and the grin derails all of Germany's hastily-constructed reactions. So he brings his own hands up in lieu of a question, cupped to cradle Italy's, and waits for better instructions.

But Italy is dashing across the piazza, leaving Germany like a statue of St. Francis with a handful of birdseed and at the mercy of the pigeons regrouping from their scuttle out of Italy's path. He draws his fingers together like the snap of a lock as soon as he feels the grains trickling through the gaps to plink against his shoes and the pavement. Then he turns and sways on the spot, trying to track Italy's dance along the front of the Basilica while not getting pushed from his position by a wave of fresh people pouring in from the Merceria, so that even though the two are separated now, at least he won't be lost. In flashes and sudden, almost-imagined glimpses, Italy weaves his way amongst the dense groups of gawkers, scattering seeds and pigeons and tourists alike underfoot.

When he traipses back to Germany's side, hands empty of mischief and gasping for breath amid his laughter, he manages to giggle, "If you tried that too I think I'd be so scared I'd run away, and then you'd have to ask for directions like a tourist!"

Germany snorts; the absurdity is enough to make him want to run away as well. Italy and all of his antics, he has to admit, look a little less ridiculous today as he leads Germany around Venice: swooping into crowds to startle tourists like pigeons, bragging to girls as if what he ate for breakfast that morning counts as a glorious exploit, singing at the top of his lungs in the gondola ("They're really just for tourists these days, you know, but it isn't Venice if you don't ride the gondolas! Oh, and the drivers don't really serenade everyone as they go along, but America said that to me-you know how he gets those funny ideas-and I thought it sounded real fun!"). But Germany, even as a stranger on holiday in Venice, would never not look ridiculous running across the square and strewing chaos.

Or maybe it's not that he looks any less absurd, but it's easy to see where all Italy Veneziano's whimsy comes from, surrounded by this city of saints and winged lions. The statues are weathered and marked by decay, but they reign with a charm that is almost a dignity over a city that smiles and punts its gondolas through the canals while sinking slowly into the lagoon around it.

A pigeon flutters up to settle heavily on Germany's forearm, its clawed feet wrinkling his shirt sleeve, since he makes as good a roost as any of the other statues in the piazza-better, since his hands are still full of Italy's birdseed. He twitches his elbow up sharply-"Shoo!"-and Italy shrieks and cowers as the bird flaps away over his head. When he straightens again he dissolves into sheepish laughter, and his eyes are so warm that Germany can feel their heat on his face, right below his own eyes and in his ears, and Germany has a compulsion to brush Italy's hair smooth from its wild displacement by the pigeon's wing beats. Perhaps the latter shows on his face, because Italy scoops from the stash of birdseed bit by bit between his fingertips, scattering it a safe distance away from their feet.

"I want to show you the Basilica di San Marco next," Italy decides. He crouches down on the pavement and drapes his arms over his knees as he clucks at the pigeons. "It's really beautiful, and I know you like really beautiful things even though sometimes you don't want to say so." He pauses to think, then turns his head to look back up at Germany. "Only you probably shouldn't tell Romano. He said that I shouldn't take you into the Basilica, except his face really said _couldn't_, and then he talked about how it's not right to bring heathens into holy places, and sometimes Big Brother doesn't make any sense at all because Germany might not be _Catholic_ but he's not a heathen. But you always look unhappy when Romano yells at you, anyway, so this can be our secret."

Germany nods, but Italy isn't looking at him anymore, just reaching his empty fingers up as if he could pluck birdseed from the very air. So Germany stretches his hands down to meet Italy's and replies, "That is fine." He watches as Italy tosses a fresh round of birdseed with a few relaxed flicks of his wrist, nothing like the awkward, exaggerated overhand he applies for grenade practice.

Germany tips his right hand and finds that what remains of the seeds will fit into the palm of his left, so he spills them over and then rubs his fingers over his palm to dislodge the few clinging to his skin. Taking a pinch of birdseed between his fingertips, he flings his hand in an arc to mimic Italy's pigeon-feeding maneuver. The action isn't at all the same, but the pigeons waddle over and peck it up regardless.

Germany isn't satisfied without order, needs things to be named and tucked in their proper boxes, so he thinks: if he had to name this feeling, it isn't quite like pride, but perhaps it might be filed away as something like contentment.

"Hey, hey, Germany," Italy interrupts, still crouched where someone might trip over him, the same way he's been bursting with interruptions all day. Germany gives a grunt that shows he's listening. "Who's your number one?"

"My number one?"

Italy takes the liberty of imagining Germany's face, with little lines furrowing his forehead in confusion, and laughs because he is endearingly, unbearably cute-and the giggles only worsen because he pictures, correctly again, how the laughter weighs even heavier on Germany's brow and purses his lips in annoyance. He recovers before Germany can give into the temptation to act on that annoyance and clarifies, "That's right! Who is Germany's number one person? You know, like who is your best friend, or who you like the most."

The frown doesn't leave Germany's mouth, and he studies the birdseed in his left hand because it's about as useful at providing a hint of context as Italy himself. He can't often read Italy-and very often, what Germany reads isn't what Italy is trying to say-but he has a suspicion of where this question is leading. And he's trying to be his best today, standing in the Piazza San Marco in a city of winged lions, with a would-be soldier who depends on him to raise his spirits and lead him to the safe side of victory.

So he clears his throat and squares his shoulders and indulges: "Well then... I suppose the person who is my best friend, the person I most like, would be Italy. Don't you agree?"

"Yay," Italy cheers, his excitement breathy in an attempt not to scare the birds he's luring towards him, "I'm Germany's number one!"

A curious pigeon hops onto Germany's shoe, nips at the hem of his pant leg, then twists its head to observe him with one beady black eye. Germany stares back; he supposes that he looks just as out of place as a dirty grey pigeon among the beauty of Venice, standing between the grandeur of the Basilica and the clock tower. But the birds fit the tableau as if they belong, somehow and against all reason, and Germany realizes he parted ways with his dignity the moment he set off for Venice. So with a loosened tongue and without any of his customary deliberation-scrutinizing his thoughts, and how they might best be put into words, and whether he wants those thoughts in words at all-he adds, "And what about you? Am I your number one?"

"Germany is my number two," Italy replies, as readily and bright as ever, as if he hasn't responded at all inappropriately, teasing and cruel and taking without giving. Germany doesn't look up from his shoes-the pigeon, after catching a moment on his shoelace and flapping ungainly, slips between his feet and gobbles the few grains that fell there earlier.

He ought to drop the topic, he knows. Italy has never excelled at following rules in anything, and it would be stupid for Germany to turn a light-hearted game into something serious and hurtful. Italy is a string of accidents that leaves bruises in his wake; he speaks like the confused and chaotic mess of a battleground, with words like bullets that sting but don't slow Germany down for more than a moment-because he can weather the bruises and worse that come from keeping Italy close. He should ignore this static that clutters the radio waves, as always, and just concentrate on getting his own messages through.

But because his tongue was loose enough to join in Italy's bantering game in the first place, he can't help but frown and follow with, "Then who is your number one?"

The soles of Italy's shoes scrape across the stone as he shifts his weight, and he tilts his head up but not towards Germany, as if he's studying the Campanile. "It's a story," Italy replies, which Germany has learned to mean that he should shut his mouth and not interrupt and ask when Italy will ever get to his point. So while he waits he lifts his eyes to the bell tower as well, to the lion and the angel and the blue sky behind it. "You remember I told you I had a first love, right? That boy told me before he left that no matter how much time passed, he would always love me the most. But he never came back." It's a matter-of-fact recounting with no tears or sighs, but Italy's voice has an old color to it, like the streaks of black that spot some of the buildings and statues of the city.

"So I thought," Italy continues, "I would make a promise to him, too. I promised that I'd always love him the most of anyone in the world. So he has to be my number one. And that makes Germany my number two."

Germany works through the logic aloud: "So you like him more than you'll ever like me, even though he's gone."

Italy laughs, rocking a bit as it shakes his balance. "You can't think about it that way," he protests. "I like so many people, and it's all different. I can't say if I like him more than I like Germany or Romano, or even big brother France who can be a real jerk sometimes."

"But you just said..." He lets the frown, tugging at the corners of his mouth, fall shut over the rest of the words.

Italy stands up and pivots on the spot and steps back to Germany's side, but this time he doesn't link his arm with Germany's. Germany stares at the gap between them as if it's a rude stranger who's forced their way in, and although he usually demands (endlessly, ineffectually) that Italy respect his personal space, it feels odd and wrong after all of this morning's clinging to have Italy so close and not somehow touching him. But Germany's tongue has blundered and he's ruined everything, and he's no longer a visitor on holiday in the Piazza San Marco-just Germany, and just like ordinary, he can't raise his arm the short distance to take Italy's hand.

Italy watches him watching them and asks, "Do you want to know how much I like Germany?"

He can't answer, because Germany doesn't know what the right answer should be. All he knows is that he should quit while he's behind before he digs himself any deeper, that none of this matters, that it's silly to let Italy's words-tossed out with haphazard accuracy, but only as damaging as the pin of a grenade-wound his feelings. He is rational, logical, and above reacting with his heart. All he needs to know is that he can trust Italy and that their partnership isn't compromised-so what does "how much" matter?

"To really know how much I love Germany, he'd have to leave, right now. And when he was gone, when I missed him, I'd know how much I loved him." Italy folds his arms over his chest, his hands clasping his elbows. A woman murmurs an apology as she brushes past Germany on the other side, her hand linking a chain of child and husband beside her, and his heart clenches with the sudden thought that Italy might take just one step away and slip into any of the crowds in the piazza, just disappear and Germany would never find him back. The world isn't so small a place, and Germany knows only the superficialities of Venice. And it terrifies him, somewhere deep down, to realize that he could do the same-simply walk away from Italy's side and let the world swallow him up. "But then Germany wouldn't be able to know, because he wouldn't be here. And I'd rather not have Germany leave me. Anyway, trying to weigh two loves like that-trying to decide which pain is more-isn't that sad? Trying to choose-I'd rather not have any pain at all. I can't choose between them. I can't say who I love more. All I can say is that Holy Roman Empire is a special love, and Germany is a different kind of special."

A knot of regret and disgust and disappointment churns in Germany's stomach, the one that burns in him when he's let down his troops. He's misstepped, made a mistake, failed to correct it in time; and the person who stands by his side and salutes poorly and smiles and calls him "Captain" and depends on him, the person in Germany's charge, has suffered for it.

He's still holding his left hand out in front of him, the dwindled pile of birdseed balanced in his palm. He turns his hand over, tossing the grains away carelessly-what does it matter, since the pigeons will eat it regardless-and brushes his hands off. Then he grabs Italy and points their joined hands toward the Basilica. Because he can't give up, because he has to arm himself, even if only in words:

"I don't want to know, either."


End file.
